It's A Brand New Day
by storybycorey
Summary: Post MSIV- I've done my best to fix things! ...They sleep wrapped in each other's arms, no space between, his hand warm and heavy on her belly, anchoring her each fitful time she wakes.


_She was spunky then. Too big for her britches at times, her father used to say, but sure and eager and ready to tackle the world._

 _She stopped on her way to the basement that first morning, checked in the ladies room to make sure her hair hadn't frizzed. Gave herself a pep talk in the mirror._ You can do this. _Smoothed nervous fingers down the new suit she'd purchased over the weekend. She'd paid full price; the day deserved it._

 _The door swung open just as she heard the metallic clink against the sink, then again on the floor. "Oh!" the older woman said, reaching down and scooping up the button to place into Scully's hand._

 _"_ _Oh no," Scully whined, her crisp, clean first-day confidence suddenly taking a hit. "Not today..." She scrabbled through her purse in hopes of finding a sewing kit, knowing the search was futile._

 _"_ _It's alright, hon. It's just a button."_

 _"_ _No, you don't understand. It's my first day. I need..." She pulled out a rubber band, held it in the air, wondering whether it could somehow be of use._

 _"_ _Oh, I get it. First impressions." The woman rooted in her own purse. "Which department?" She had a kind face. She reminded Scully of her mother._

 _"_ _Umm…," Scully hesitated, not quite sure why, "X Files."_

 _The woman paused, looked as though she wanted to say something, then dug back into her purse, a minute later pulling her hand out with flourish. "Safety pin!"_

 _She took the button from Scully's clenched fist, pulled open her blazer and threaded the pin through the lining then back out the front, catching the button by its shank and securing it. "Good as new!" she stated when finished, then patted Scully's hand. "You're going to do great, sweetie. That Agent Mulder is a nice man, despite what people say." She reached across and grabbed a stack of paper towels, waving them in the air. "All I came in for—my coffee spilled on the floor out there."_

 _On her way to the door, she threw back over her shoulder, "I'm Dawn by the way. Good luck today!"_

 _Scully smiled. "Thanks Dawn. I'm Dana."_

 _She looked back into the mirror. Smiled her most self-assured smile, pulled up her too-big-for-her britches._ You can do this. _Made her way down to the basement._

….

The pain hits worst when they're almost back to the house, late at night, pulling up the gravel drive. Every other time they've bumped along this path, she's had a son out there. Mulder's had a son out there. She's not sure what either of them have now.

She pulls him to her when they reach the porch, sobs against his chest, catches his tears in her hair. She's always felt safest wrapped in his arms, but even his arms can't protect her from what's happening now. She remembers a carefree day a few years ago, sipping iced tea on the porch swing. It was windy, and Mulder had pulled playfully at her hair as it blew across his face. She'd had a sudden flashback—William tugging her hair and laughing when she scolded him. She'd had to get up and take a walk to keep the emotions from overwhelming her.

"It was all a lie, Scully," he murmurs brokenly against her temple. Not all of it, she aches to say. Hearing the anguish in his voice somehow makes everything worse. Mulder doesn't break easily, but when he does, his jagged edges are painful.

"We've always searched for the truth," she muffles into his jacket, but she hates herself after. They'd never have searched for the truth if they'd known it would mean this. "None of it kept us from loving him." She pulls away and takes his face in her hands, swipes her thumbs across his cheekbones to catch the tears. "He was _ours_ , regardless of DNA, regardless of anything else they want to tell us." She's convincing herself as surely as she's trying to convince him. "Whether he was a monster, a misguided experiment, we loved him." So much. She'd loved him so much. "They can't take that away, I won't let them."

His eyes are pained and wet as she meets them, but they crinkle a bit at the edges. "Dana Scully discounting hard science," he chuckles sadly, "Who'da thunk?" She gives him a sad smile, then threads her fingers through his hair, reaching up to press her lips softly against his mouth. She leaves them there, still, until he finally responds, kissing her gently, parting his lips and sliding his tongue along the insides of her cheeks, the roof of her mouth. Their kisses are tender and desperate, and she can feel his heartbeat against her chest. It's small but it's consolation, knowing they still have this.

She pulls away. "C'mon," she whispers, taking his hand. "Let's go to bed."

They sleep wrapped in each other's arms, no space between, his hand warm and heavy on her belly, anchoring her each fitful time she wakes.

….

 _Days bled into night bled into days again. Time had no meaning on the Oncology Ward. The doctors, the nurses, they came and they went. Blended into one another. Blended into the bright sterile white of the hospital room. She was dying and tried to keep track. Sometimes she wondered whether it even mattered._

 _She wasn't spunky anymore, hadn't been for a while. All remnants of that fresh-faced, eager young agent had been washed away in a hospital room, along with bleach and disinfectant sprays and bedpans full of vomit. She mourned the loss at times, when she found bursts of energy amidst the pain, mourned the naivety and the innocence she'd once had._

 _Then one day, she_ knew _. She woke up in the morning and knew with certainty it would be her last._

 _Her nurse that day was different than the others. She wore yellow scrubs instead of pale blue. She was a fill-in, she informed Scully, brought in from another hospital wing. Her hand was warm and soft when she laid it on Scully's cheek. She knew, too._

 _"_ _I'm scared," Scully whispered, even though she'd told herself she wasn't, even though she'd resigned herself to this._

 _"_ _I know," the nurse murmured, then looked her gently in the eye before turning. "It's a beautiful day out. Let's get you some sun." She opened the curtains, then sat down beside the bed and held Scully's hand, squeezed her fingers in reassurance, for much longer than was necessary by a fill-in nurse._

 _That day didn't bleed into the others. That day stood out. It was bright and full of sun._

 _It wasn't her last after all._

 _Later, after giving the news to Mulder, happy tears smeared across her cheeks, she mentioned the nurse from that morning. He smiled, brought the back of her hand to his lips for another kiss (there had been so many already), then murmured against her skin, "She brought me a blanket out in the hall last night, let me stretch out on the chairs. I think she said her name was Dawn."_

 _"_ _You know, Scully," he added after a moment, "She was the only person here that didn't treat me like a nuisance."_

 _That night, Scully sent up prayer after prayer of thanks—for her remission, for the sun that had streamed through her window all day, and for a kind-hearted fill-in nurse who'd been so much more caring than she needed to be._

….

They've settled into what some would call a routine in this newish life of theirs. Long walks in the morning after leisurely cups of coffee. Coffee for Mulder anyway; Scully sips leisurely at protein shakes and smoothies. The nausea is getting better. The anger and worry that had plagued her for weeks is subsiding. Thankfully. They read to each other sometimes, from whichever book or journal either is currently perusing.

There's a family of deer that live in the woods behind their property. Mulder's named them after the Gunmen, though Scully's positive one is female. They see the group about twice a week, the one named Melvin the bravest of the bunch.

Mulder retreats online in the afternoons, tries to make sense of things. Sometimes she listens when he tells her of his findings. Sometimes she just wants to let it be. They've been given a chance, an absurd, improbable chance. She's finally reached a point in her life where she grudgingly accepts not everything needs an answer. Twenty-five years ago, would she have guessed she'd be the first to reach that place?

She doesn't mind his questioning, his searches, though. It's who he is, and she'd never want him to be someone else. There's a light in his eyes lately, not even the barest hint of a shadow. She checks often to be sure. Their past weighs them down, but their future, perhaps for the first time in years, is hopeful.

She writes articles and essays around bouts of morning sickness, mails them off for publishing.

There are doctor's appointments, lots of them. And aches and pains and vitamins and restrictions and rules. She follows most of the rules, but not some. Mulder tries to argue about those _some_ , but when she lies on the bed, all pale, smooth skin and gently rounded curves, beckoning him, he admittedly doesn't try very hard.

She's there tonight, on their bed, the windows open and summer breezes ruffling through the curtains, putting on a midnight show. She's fourteen weeks along, her formerly toned, flat belly now slightly protruding.

They weren't able to share this before. She remembers rounding her fingers over her curves back then, aching for his hands there as well. Perhaps that's why she's a bit of a rebel this time around.

"The doctor discourages it, Scully…," he scolds as she reaches for him, tugs him onto the bed. His fortitude is a lost cause the second she touches him though, and they both know it.

"Shut up, Mulder," she murmurs, "I'm a doctor, too." She pulls off his shirt, runs her hands across the hardened muscles of his chest. "Just be nice and gentle with me," she breathes, nudging his head down and then further, tilting her hips up to meet him. His long drawn-out moan means he'll agree to those terms and run with them.

He's good, he's so very good—at being gentle, at being _not_ gentle, at deciphering her gasps and her pleas and answering them with the most perfect stroke of his finger, his— _God yes_ — his tongue. She tastes better now that she's pregnant, or at least that's what he tells her, his voice muffled and sloppy against her.

She grips him by the hair, holds him there, shoves herself as close to that mouth as she can. She curses a few times, laughing at just how good it is— how talented he's become at pleasing her through the years. His free hand finds her newly swollen breasts and she gasps. They're not only newly swollen, but deliciously sensitive, and she arches her back with pleasure.

What makes her come though isn't the way he tongues at her clitoris, it isn't the way he plucks at her nipple, it's the way he draws his hand down her body and places it on her belly, cradling the soft swell of it with his fingers like it's the most valuable thing in the world.

It catches her by surprise, and she sobs his name desperately, lifting her hips from the bed, clenching her fingers in his hair. Tears stream down her cheeks. She hopes he doesn't notice.

He kisses his way up her body after, finally reaching her mouth and giving her a long, thorough taste. "Dana Scully," he murmurs against her lips, "You are the sexiest woman I've ever known."

They don't talk about William these days. They take walks, they read, they give silly names to families of deer. They have sex. But they don't talk about him.

Sometimes she cries. She wonders whether he does as well.

….

 _There were days that she didn't go home. Brought suits and reading material and better-smelling soap over to his empty apartment and tried to fill it up. Fed his fish and wondered whether they knew that he was gone, wondered whether they noticed her new and changing shape._

 _The first time the baby kicked, she was there, sitting on his old leather couch, eating a salad. His refrigerator now held fat-free Italian as well as fresh tomatoes. "I think that was a kick," she gasped, pressing her palm against her abdomen, hoping maybe he could hear her, wherever he was._

 _She talked to him sometimes._

 _"_ _Kersh is an asshole," she'd say. Or "I'm worried, Mulder. What if I can't do this alone?" Sometimes softly, "Yes, oh my God, right…there."_

 _His sheets still smelled like him, even if just barely. She'd always been a weekly wash-your-sheets kind of girl, but it had been months. She had no plans of changing that._

 _Days turned into weeks. She stayed there more often than at home. She brought her plants over, the few that were still alive. She picked up her mail on the weekends. She was alone, but there, in his apartment? There, she didn't feel it as much._

 _A woman had moved down the hall, African-American with beautiful blue-gray hair and muumuus every color of the rainbow. She nodded at Scully in the elevator, held the doors for her when she was rushed, smiled grandmotherly smiles at her slowly growing belly._

 _Scully cried at night sometimes, but only then. Softly, desperately, shirts from his laundry bin pressed against her cheek. She told herself it was the pregnancy hormones._

 _One of the mollies died. That night she cried harder. She sobbed and she sobbed, all because of a stupid fish._

 _The next morning, when she opened the apartment door to leave, there was gift bag sitting outside in the hallway. Inside was a beautiful crocheted baby blanket, sunshine yellow and pale Spring green. Tucked beside the blanket was a note:_

Thought you could use this for the little bundle you're expecting. Please let me know if I can ever be of help. Blessings, Miss Dawn , # 46

….

They don't talk about William and they don't talk about the pregnancy. Not really. Not much anyway. Well, of course they talk about it. They talk about the backaches, about when her next doctor's appointment is, about her inability to find pants that fit properly. About how unfair it is that he can still eat sushi (and _does_ , right in front of her like an asshole). That's another rule she considers breaking, but doesn't.

But they don't really talk about it, not in terms of an actual baby being here soon and what that means. What it feels like they'll be replacing. Mulder tries. He's excited, she can tell, but she often shuts him down before even giving him a chance. It's not that she's not happy, it's just that she's not quite sure _what_ she's supposed to feel.

She rides a roller coaster of worry and excitement and sadness and happiness and anger and… most of the time, it's easier just not to think at all. It's easier to concentrate on their walks, on her writing, on the deer, on the way he can make her forget absolutely everything except for how good her body can feel.

She's eighteen weeks on a Tuesday morning. They're at the O.B.'s office often enough to have a favorite couch in the waiting room, and that piece of real estate is gloriously vacant today. Good sign. She's nervous. It's ultrasound day, and there are lots of things that could be found wrong on ultrasound day. His hand rests on her knee, and she's not sure who's most comforted by that.

Inside the room, paper robe crinkling, her tummy is round and waiting. "We'll know the gender today," she murmurs, eyes meeting his.

"Do we want to?" he asks, and she chuckles.

"Mulder, I'm a doctor. I'll see it on the sonogram regardless of whether I want to or not."

"It's just… we haven't really talked about…" She sometimes forgets this is all new to him, that doctor's offices and sonograms and head circumferences aren't just shop talk like they are to her. She reaches for his hand just as the ultrasound tech walks in.

The jelly is cold as always, and the image blue-gray wishy-washy up on the screen. The tech presses here, there, then here again, searching for the right spot, chatting about the coffee maker in the break room and how it broke down today.

A pause of blue and Scully sees it, just a glimpse, but enough to know. She grips Mulder's hand so tightly he gasps. The technician goes on and on and on, pointing out measurements here and calculations there, but neither of them hears a word.

"Scully?" Mulder asks, concerned.

She looks at him with tears in her eyes and the sort of awed smile she reserves for only the most precious of moments. "Mulder…," she breathes, pausing to laugh on a sob, "…it's a girl."

The look of wonder that washes across his face is purer and realer than anything she's seen in months. "A girl?" he whispers, "That blobby blue amoeba is our little girl?"

She wants to smack him, and then kiss him, and then spend the rest of her life right beside him, because yes, Mulder, that beautiful blobby blue amoeba is our little girl.

He swoops down, hugging her tight, burying his head between her cheek and the scratchy papered pillowcase. His hot breath and his tears fall against her neck, and it's worth every single hill of the roller coaster she's lurched over these last four months to feel this with him. They hold each other for such a long time, they make the broken coffee maker tech uncomfortable. They don't care.

When he finally uncurls, they barely look again at the monitor. All is good, the tech tells them, all is amazingly on par for such a high risk pregnancy. Scully's brain processes the words on one plane, but on the other are only his happy, wet eyes and his voice saying those three breathtaking words, 'our little girl.'

….

 _No realtors. Things were safe_ enough _for them, but they still did as many things 'off the books' as possible. It just made sense._

 _They'd decided it was time. They were tired of running._

 _Mulder scoured the newspaper while sitting at the obligatory, teetering, pay-by-the-week hotel room table, found a listing 'by owner' that wasn't also online. Perfect—no paper trail to exist forever in the cloud, or whatever it was they were calling it then. He passed the paper over to Scully:_ Little white house on large private lot. Fixer-upper. Unremarkable, but ideal if you like privacy and looking at the stars. No city lights & nobody around for miles.

 _They called that morning._

 _As they drove up the long gravel drive, she felt a sense of peace. It felt right. She'd made her decision before even looking inside. Mulder grinned and grabbed for her hand across the console. She knew he'd made his, too._

 _The little old lady who met them there explained that the house had belonged to her sister who'd recently passed. "She kept up with it as best she could…," she said, "but as you can see, it was a bit too much for her to handle."_

 _"_ _No, no," Scully responded, "Really, it's exactly what we're looking for." The claw-foot tub she'd found on her walk-through had even further sealed the deal._

 _They had cash, a stockpile they'd saved for just this purpose, and the price was low. They made the arrangements that very afternoon._

 _It would take a few days for her to get the paperwork in order, but the woman gave them the keys in good faith anyway. Scully could tell she was relieved just to be done with it._

 _The gravel jumped and spit from the woman's tires as she drove away, and soon as she was out of sight, Mulder drug Scully back inside with a hand wrapped tightly around her wrist. She squealed, feeling younger than she'd felt in years, kissed him hard and jumped into his arms before she thought to stop herself. He grunted, surprised, then laughed, then plopped her ceremoniously onto the kitchen counter. She took his lip between her teeth in answer._

 _His hand was up her shirt and her jeans around her knees in no time, his cock thick and delicious while her neck arched back, banging every so often against the cabinet. When they finished, she gasped against his chest, her forehead resting heavily on his shoulder. "Welcome home, Agent Mulder," she breathed._

 _"_ _Welcome home, Agent Scully," he chuckled back._

 _The papers were signed two days later, ownership of an unremarkable little white house passed from the deceased Dawn Eloise Tillerson over to Fox William Mulder and Dana Katharine Scully._

 _…_ _._

The water sloshes just over the brim when she climbs in. "Shit," she whispers. Mulder's been on her about the hardwood floors lately. The baths are good for her back though; they take the pressure off her aching spine. She's thirty-five weeks, and the peak of her belly swells just barely out of the water. Her breasts… well, pregnancy does have its perks, doesn't it?

There's a partially-erected crib in the living room. And a fifty-seven year old man with a screwdriver. Lord help them all. The baby hasn't even been born, and Mulder's already winning at the Daddy game.

As the water slowly chills, she begins the painstaking process of finagling her body out—the only downside to a bath these days. Five minutes later and a gallon's worth more damage to the floors, she admits to herself it's hopeless. This day's been coming for a while.

"Mulder," she whines.

"S'up, Scully?" he calls. "I'm navigating a Philips head nightmare right now…"

"Help?"

She pouts when he appears in the doorway, tall and broad and perfectly capable of doing silly things like climbing out of a bathtub. "It wasn't this difficult seventeen years ago," she says, plumping out her bottom lip. Some version of this phrase comes out of her mouth at least once a day.

"Good thing," he grunts, helping her up, "Wouldn't've wanted you to have to call on some other hot stud to help y— Oh shit. Scully." His face is pale as he motions to her leg.

"Wha—" And then she sees it. Water pinkened by blood, running down the inside of her thigh. "No," she gasps. "No, it's too soon. Oh God, Mulder, no…"

He's got her wrapped in a towel and is carrying her toward the door before she even realizes what's happening. She stops him. "Clothes. I need clothes. A…a nightgown, in the top drawer, my robe…"

 _Please God_. This was never meant to be, a mistake. Haven't the last twenty-five years taught her anything?

She's been having visions. Kaleidoscopic flashes. Pregnancy brain, she's told herself, afraid to consider the alternatives. She hasn't told Mulder. She thinks she's going to vomit.

"The car, the car," he's saying, and she stumbles her way there. _Please God, please God, please God_.

She'd rolled her eyes at the Mustang when he bought it, but now, as he whips through late-night traffic, she's never been so grateful for a momentary midlife crisis.

"It's not good, is it?" he asks, voice rough with fear.

 _Please God, please God, please God._

"Bleeding during the third trimester is never good, Mulder," she whispers, gripping the door handle, trying to ignore the list of possible tragedies just waiting to befall them.

He presses down on the gas, swerving so severely she feels sick.

 _…_ _._

 _There was a melody, playing in her head, one that appeared when she arrived at the hospital and then never left. She couldn't place it, but it made her ache deep down inside her bones._

 _Her mother was dying._

 _God only gives you as much as you can handle. She'd heard that since she was a little girl. It wasn't true though. She hadn't been able to handle things for years, and yet life just kept on, throwing tragedy after tragedy at her tired and battered body like some screwed-up, celestial game of dodgeball. Didn't matter though—whether she could handle things. Because the balls kept coming regardless._

 _Mulder kept vigil with her. They sat over her dying mother's body and traded quips like the old days. It was morbid but it helped, even though it wasn't really like the old days at all. It hadn't been for a while. He was a part of her though, and she knew she was going to need every single little piece of herself if she was going to get through this._

 _She'd failed her mother in so many ways. Stole a daughter from her, a grandson. Brought more worry upon her than any mother should ever have had to bear. She'd never forgive herself for that._

 _That damn melody..._

 _It was awful, when it happened. She thought she was prepared, but really, how could she have prepared for that? The pain ripped up her throat like a putrid, sour mouthful of vomit. It was overwhelming— her poor little body couldn't contain the emotions, and though Mulder held her in his arms, it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough._

 _She needed to leave or she'd explode._

 _She paced while awaiting the elevator, willing the tears not to fall, the damn melody growing so loud in her ears she wanted to rip them from her head._

 _When the doors finally opened, she paused. The car was full to the brim with people. But no, she could keep it together for just one more minute. She had to._

 _The elevator chatter was quiet and indecipherable, and it made her want to scream:_ Don't you know my mother's dead up there in a hospital bed? _But as the ground fell slightly from beneath her feet, her ears picked up on something else. Bits and pieces of a woman humming. Through barely held-back tears, she searched for the source, but found none. The humming grew louder, and her tears began to fall. It was the same heartbreaking tune that had plagued her for the last few days._

 _The ground rose up and the elevator dinged. She'd survived, and the throng of people dispersed. The humming had stopped. She released the metal railing, only then realizing she'd been gripping it so tightly her fingers had turned white. She rushed from the building as quickly as her legs could carry her._

 _"_ Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on?

Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?

And did I hear you say, he was a-meetin' you here today,

To take you to his mansion in the sky…."

 _She'd finally recognized the melody. Her mother used to sing it to her, over and over again, every time she had nightmares as a little girl._

 _She sat in the car and she sobbed._

….

Flashes.

Darkness. Gunshots. A baby in her arms—William. First handshakes in a basement office. Damp air—her hair whipping in the wind. Sunshine—warmth on her face in a hospital bed. Sunshine again— final kisses on a chubby baby cheek. Car tires squealing. Open windows—fresh air—crickets chirping—stars glittering. Baby blanket—forgotten on the floor. The pier. Mulder there. Crepe-papery maternal hands, warm and still. Water. Deep, cold, black.

Jackson. Baby girl with a fuzz of red hair. Sunshine again. William. WILLIAM.

Her eyes snap open to gray-white ceiling tiles, swiftly zooming above. There's the squeak of wheels on linoleum beneath her, the faraway ding of an elevator door. Blue-papered scrubs and doctors' voices. Mulder running beside her, holding her hand. "Mulder," she gasps, "He's alive. William. I saw him. And the baby…"

"Shhhh," he hushes, out of breath. "You need to stay calm." Doors swing open to an operating bay. She doesn't understand. "The baby, Scully… She's in distress," he explains quickly, and then he's gone, pulled away as the doors swing shut.

"Mulder!" she cries, reaching for him. "What's happening? Someone tell me what's happening!" Above the din of the operating room, she hears phrases like _placental abruption, emergency caesarean,_ and _fetal distress_. A sheet's pulled up in front of her eyes and the last thing she sees is a surgeon bending over her with a scalpel.

….

She's born at 5:14 AM, squalling and tiny, just as the sun breaks over the horizon.

 _Please God, please God_ , Scully repeats in her head as they whisk her away.

She lies in a hospital bed now, stitched up but sore, exhausted, while Mulder sits beside her and strokes his fingers through her hair. "She's so beautiful, Scully," he murmurs.

"I need to see her," she pleads. It aches knowing her daughter is only a floor away from being in her arms.

"They're still running tests… soon…" His face is ragged from worry and no sleep, but his eyes—they're the happiest she's ever seen them. She lays her hand on his stubbled cheek.

"I knew, Mulder," she whispers. He turns his head, nuzzles against her palm. "Somehow I knew she'd be okay. I had a vision…"

"It doesn't matter how you knew," he says. "All that matters is you're safe. She's safe." He pulls her hand to his lips, kisses each finger in turn.

There's a commotion at the door as a nurse bustles in with an incubator. "Look who's passed all her tests this morning. She's a spunky lil' thing, this one!"

"She's okay?" Scully sucks in a breath, hopeful. Mulder's fingers dig into her arm.

"She's just per-fect," the woman croons in a sing-songy voice, wheeling the cart beside the bed.

"Oh my God," Scully sobs, really looking at her daughter for the first time. Tears stream down her cheeks as the nurse reaches in and pulls out the bundle of pink to lie in her arms.

"She'll need to spend a few days under observation obviously, but she's stable enough now for a little Mama time." Scully barely hears a word as she looks down into the eyes of her new baby girl. _Their_ new baby girl.

"I'll just leave you three to get acquainted for a few minutes. Call button's on your bed if you need anything!" The nurse pats Scully on her knee, then leaves just as swiftly as she'd arrived.

And just like that, they're alone.

It's still in the room. Quiet. Humbling and awe-inspiring. "Mulder," she murmurs, "Mulder, look at her." She shifts position, and the baby sighs in her sleep.

He leans over the bed. "We made this perfect little thing, Scully," he breathes. "Can you believe it?"

She chuckles through happy tears. It feels so good to laugh. She smooths her thumb over soft, velvety skin, leans over and presses a kiss to a fuzzy little ear.

The hills they've climbed, the questions they've answered, the goodbyes they've wept… Their lives, tangled and tragic, have at least led them to this.

"What should we call her?" Mulder asks in a hushed, reverent voice.

It's amazing that they haven't discussed this yet. She thinks they've been afraid. Acknowledging a miracle isn't easy. Naming one's even harder.

"Have you thought about it at all?" she asks, looking into his eyes, knowing for certain he has.

"Our lives, Scully…," he starts, "They're full of ghosts..." She nods. Though difficult, it's something she's come to accept.

"Those ghosts have beautiful names, Mulder. Samantha, Melissa, Emily…"

"They do." He nods. "But… but I don't want our daughter to carry that around." His voice is so soft, so full of emotion. "I don't want her to live in someone else's shadow, to feel like a replacement."

The thought brings tears to her eyes. Each of those girls was so very special. And each deserves to be remembered by name. Her _own_ name.

"Me neither," she says. She looks back down at her precious baby girl, bright with the promise of new beginnings.

The curtains in the window are parted slightly, and a soft morning glow infiltrates the room. There are so many things to be thankful for. So many people who have brought her happiness, even in the smallest, most insignificant of ways.

"Mulder?" she asks.

"Hmmm?" he hums languidly, drunk off a tiny bundle of pinkened flesh.

"What would you think about Dawn?"

He smiles, such a tender smile, reaches down to brush a finger down the newborn infant's cheek. Murmurs, "I think it's the most beautiful name in the world."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep, cleansing breath. Dawn. Mulder presses his lips to her temple. "I love you both so much," he whispers against her skin.

She begins to rock—softly, slowly—back and forth, back and forth—gentle strains of a melody rising from her throat.

The door cracks open and the nurse from earlier peers in. "Just checking," she says quietly. "S'everyone good?"

Scully smiles. "Everyone's wonderful." More wonderful than she ever could have imagined.

She goes back to rocking, humming the same wistful tune. Rocking, humming, rocking…

"Aww," fusses the nurse from the doorway, "I recognize that tune. Delta Dawn! My Grandma Maggie used to sing it to me when I was a baby…"

Scully's eyes open wide and her mouth drops open, and she just barely catches the twinkle in the nurse's eye as she disappears back through the door.

She looks back down at her daughter and she smiles.

It's a brand new day.


End file.
